My boy
My boy didn’t smell right. Usually, he smelled like the dirt we rolled in sometimes when we played ball in back of the house, or like the trees in the forest down the road. Or whatever he was eating and sneaking to me under the table. But, he hadn’t wanted to run and play with me for a while, though. And he was only eating some water my lady fed him from a bowl. He used to run everywhere, with me chasing circles around his feet. Then, he stopped getting out of bed.
They took him away one day. He was gone a long time. I went to the window and the garden gate so many times before they finally brought him home. My man was carrying him and my lady kept saying, “down” when I tried to jump up to lick my boy’s face. When they put him in our bed, I leapt up and that’s when the smell hit me. What was going on with my boy? I even had to snuggle my head under his hand, ’cause he couldn’t lift it. He smiled a little as he said, “hey, Zeus, hey buddy,” but then he just closed his eyes and went to sleep. So, I did, too.
We did a lot of sleeping. Every now and again, I would wake up to see my lady or my man next to the bed watching us, water leaking from their eyes. They would stroke me and say, “good boy, Zeus.” I don’t know why since I was just lying there with my boy, sleeping, waiting for him to smell right again. But I would wag my tail a little and lick the water on their faces.
Then one day, he no longer smelled funny. He didn’t smell at all. And somehow, I knew that my boy wouldn’t be rolling in the dirt with me anymore.
Dandelions and Memory
She makes a wish on the seeds when she blows them, and she calls it “the afterlife of a dandelion." She does not know it, but my daughter has created a vision for me, the afterlife I want to be. I have told those who love me to stop my watch when it’s on my wrist in the coffin because it’s a monstrous image: the ticking motion of time mocking my inert form. It’s what I dread of death, my futile stillness in a universe that bends and shapes and whirrs around my body. Better to be burned and scattered to the winds or waves, that in being somewhere I might be anywhere, and those who remember me still might stand wherever they stand and make a wish as I blow by.
It’s my duty..........
My bedroom is warm and cosy
It should be safe, a place of sanctuary
Behind that closed door
Blankets pulled tight around my neck
I’m not safe, I’m unsafe
Because this is the time
It shouldn’t be like that
It’s our secret he once whispered in my ear
Eyes tight shut blocking out the vision
His breath tinged with the devil
His devil is whiskey, by the glass, on the double
The creak of the stair tells me it’s time
I know its time
Time to do my duty
Eyes clenched, I cannot see
But I can see in my mind’s eye
I can feel everything
Hear every grunt and moan
Until his hand rests on mine
It’s over
The bedroom door clicks shut.
Father’s day is over
That is, today is over
Another day soon, to do my duty!
Celia Poppinjay 19th June 2020
The Pretender’s Potpourri
My first inclination is to speak in generalities, but I’m going to instead post random bits of things that work for me. They might not work for you; that’s fine. Disregard at will. But for 20 minutes I’ll imagine I know something, toss out some thoughts and post them, and perhaps someone will find something helpful.
1. Show, don’t tell, as all the writing instructors say. Never tell your reader what to think when an image will do.
2. While editing, you can probably strike half your adjectives. If you use an adverb, too, you’d better have a damn good reason.
3. Does it really matter what color your character’s eyes are?
4. Listening to the right album or playlist while writing can make a big difference, in no small part because
5. you should never neglect mood.
6. Hemingway for economy (even if he is a bastard) [“Old Man at the Bridge,” “Hills Like White Elephants”], Virginia Woolf for lyricism and her ability to narrate silence [To the Lighthouse, for a start], Thomas Hardy for scene setting linked to narrative vision [Tess of the D’Urbervilles], Joseph Conrad for frame narrative [Heart of Darkness, though Achebe’s right about the racism], Jane Austen for wit and restraint [Pride and Prejudice], Flannery O’Conner for the sickening irony and portrayal of a fallen world [“A Good Man is Hard to Find,” “The Life You Save May Be Your Own”]. The Great Gatsby gets my vote for The Great American Novel (TM). I’ll take Ta-Nehisi Coates over any living essayist I can think of, though I’m less widely read in that genre than I ought to be.
7. And to flip to a different medium for a hastily-considered list, Vertigo, The Virgin Suicides, Moonlight, The Third Man, and The Illusionist, and Tokyo Story all have things to teach a writer.
8. Sections of dialogue become more vivid with properly-timed descriptions of physical actions and setting, which can also provide pacing.
9. Balance the abstract and the concrete.
10. Find a reader and editor you trust (easier said than done, but incredibly valuable and rewarding).
11. Leave your reader space to interpret. Guide the reader, but don’t shoehorn them into a lesson.
12. Being a good Proser means reading, not just writing.
A stranger across the courtyard
I haven't seen a stranger in a while. I go through a world of the same old faces. The shopkeeper who tells me times are rough. The man who grunts behind the counter. My neighbour always in her slippers, the one who says Good Morning as if every day is the brightest she has ever seen.
On my balcony are plants I call Alfred and Rodney. As I water them one day, I see a woman across the courtyard. She is placing a cardboard box up high. Her shirt lifts slightly up over her hips. Then the cardboard box slips down and she picks it up again.
The second time I catch sight of her, she is dancing in her room. The third, she is walking across the courtyard.
She has skin the colour of dark gold, and her hair curls around her face. She walks lightly, purposefully. On her way out, she pets the caretaker's cat.
She must be new.
